


Pen Pals

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Crossover, M/M, Oblivious Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Spring of 2024. Sherlock Holmes is 34 and, for the first time in his life, he has a pen pal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pen Pals

**Author's Note:**

> So, in my head this happens before the events of the film and early enough in Sherlock’s life that he hasn’t met John yet. John’s likely to be off somewhere treating people wounded during kaiju attacks (I would say piloting a jaeger, but the only person I can think of John would be drift compatible with is Sherlock, and Sherlock would be a TERRIBLE jaeger pilot). So, Sherlock/Newt was born in my head and I pronounced it adorable and awkward and wrote this to illustrate that. Please enjoy. 
> 
> Prompt fill for Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo: Crossover.  
> www.call-me-yt.tumblr.com

It's the Spring of 2024. Sherlock Holmes is 34 and, for the first time in his life, he has a pen pal.

It happens mostly by coincidence. Sherlock has been unbearably bored. Epically bored. Almost more bored than he can bare before calling his brother Mycroft and accepting a bit of field work for Queen and Country. His consulting business is still young and with a war on business isn’t exactly booming. Otherworldly monsters spawning from the depths and attacking coastal cities have a way of making cheating spouses and shared inheritances seem trivial. The murder rate is down too, damn it. So, when the very helpful, if flighty, pathologist down at Bart’s ( _She’s called Molly, stop forgetting_ ) calls and asks if he’d like to see something special he jumps up and flies out door without even tying his shoes.

Molly has something very special indeed. Hard to come by this far from the coast. Sherlock’s not sure why it’s here, but it’s so beautiful he doesn’t care. The body lays on a sheet of plastic on top of the surgical steel table; apparently the name “stainless steel” doesn’t have much meaning in the face of Kaiju Blue. Sherlock picks up the man’s right arm and finds the place where something jagged and sharp cut through the glove and the thin skin on the back of his hand, allowing the toxin to enter. According to Molly’s report, which she is barely managing to read to him over her stutter, the substance is so toxic the blood poisoning was fatal in less than an hour. Webs of blue branch out from the cut and travel most of the way to the man’s elbow, as if spiders made of Cobalt II were making homes under his skin. Sherlock all but begs for a tissue sample.

Once Sherlock gets his samples back to the flat and under his microscope he is transfixed for hours. The cell damage is remarkable, unlike anything he's ever seen. He scribbles sketches and notes that include words like “gruesome”, “alien”, and “gorgeous” in equal measure. The substance is truly amazing. He must know everything there is to know about it and as soon as humanly possible.

A quick Google search reveals the world’s foremost researcher and expert on the biology of kaiju to be Newton Geiszler, the youngest man ever admitted to MIT and a former professor. Sherlock is impressed despite himself and begins devouring everything the man’s ever published. It takes some more creative Google-ing ( _and a bit of old fashioned hacking_ ) to find a working email. He sends a message of about 2,000 words, all of them questions. He waits impatiently for a reply, though the slides help with that.

Of course Mycroft knows immediately. Sherlock receives several texts from the big blow-hard insisting he not waste the doctor’s valuable time. Is Sherlock aware what a high-pressure environment a Shatterdome is? If Dr. Geiszler was in need of a research assistant surely he would have asked for one. Sherlock’s replies are terse but clear: _I do what I want. Intercept my correspondence or interfere with my entertainment at your peril._  He receives Dr. Geiszler’s reply after only three days.

It is, in a word, perfect. Dr. Geiszler answers every one of Sherlock’s questions fully and eloquently. The email reads like one of the man’s research papers. He even apologizes for the lack of pictures or diagrams, but they’re quite against the rules. Sherlock reads it raptly, making notes directly over his old ones in different coloured ink as he goes. He sends another email immediately with more questions, barely remembering to include an expression of gratitude in his glee to begin extrapolating from all this new information.

There’s a reply the next day.

It’s equally fascinating and informative as the first email, but Sherlock is slightly startled to find a short paragraph at the end of the correspondence that seems a bit out of place: “Tell me more about your work. What exactly is a ‘consulting detective’, Mr. Holmes?” He startles slightly, and stares at the screen as if it bit him. He hadn’t been expecting Dr. Geiszler to be interested in anything about him. The next sentence is even stranger: “And please, call me Newt.” Familiar. Friendly, even. Sherlock is not good at friendly. He tamps down on a vague and strange sense of panic while he replies.

They email back and forth like this for over a month, each time asking and answering increasingly personal questions. Sherlock now knows all about Newt’s tattoos, the music he prefers, his teaching career, and his frustration with a famous mathematician Sherlock has most heard mentioned on internet forums about astrophysics. Apparently they share both a lab and a contentious relationship that annoys everyone around them. Sherlock has told Newt about his mental map of London, Indian food, and 243 types of tobacco ash. He asks Newt to look through his website and is gratified when Newt seems genuinely interested in deductive reasoning. They also share theories about the weaknesses of kaiju and counteracting the pollution caused by their toxic blood. Sherlock is surprised to find he enjoys both equally.

Soon they exchange phone numbers and the text messages start. This is how they first work together, in a manner of speaking anyway. Sherlock picks up his phone one evening to find a text from Newt:

**Stuck. Thoughts**

**on effects of**

**chlorine on**

**mucus membranes**

**of reptiles?**

Sherlock gives his thoughts and is thanked for them, then doesn’t hear from Newt for two days. When he does text he says:

**Thanks again! Big**

**help!**

Attached to the text is a .pdf file: a scan of Newt’s notes from an experiment involving kaiju tissue and chlorine gas. Scribbled at the bottom are the words “Ideas, Sherlock?” He swears for a moment he feels a slight arrhythmia, but it passes.

Sherlock has several ideas, but elects to write them out in an email instead of 140 characters at a shot. He’s not sure why, but he’s smiling the whole time.

During this time he also receives pictures of Newt’s favorite tattoos, his ‘disgusting excuse for breakfast’ four days in a row, several of a blurry Hermann Gottlieb making rude gestures at the camera, and one of the sunset behind the bit of Hong Kong skyline visible from the Shatterdome. Sherlock sends Newt pictures of the skull and various pieces of taxidermy on the mantle, a chemical burn he gets during the course of an experiment he attempted after Newt mentioned chlorine, and the ducks swimming in Regent’s Park. Once, on a whim, he sends a short sound file of himself playing Bach on the violin. Newt texts back:

**Gorgeous. You’ll**

**have to play for me**

**again sometime ; )**

Sherlock downloads all the photos and saves all the texts to his mobile and refuses to think about why.

 

*

 

Sherlock enters his living room one morning to find his brother already waiting for him, perched delicately in Sherlock's arm chair like the hawk he is. Sherlock flops down onto the couch with a huff, exasperated before Mycroft even opens his mouth.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "I should think you would be happier to see the bearer of such good news."

"I can find your definition of 'good news' in the scandal sheets if I want to hear it. Piss off."

"Your presence has been requested for a consultation. I'm to deliver you to a private airport today at eleven-hundred hours. It's a long flight, so I suggest you ferret out some books you've not read yet. Can't have you bored in an enclosed space 36,000 feet in the air."

"Oh, the humanity," Sherlock mocks. "Why should I do anything you ask?"

"Because _I'm_ not asking. I'm quite certain you'll want to be on this plane."

"Is it going to Neverland, then?"

"No. The Hong Kong Shatterdome."  

*

The plane ride is indeed very long and Sherlock, having slept five hours the night before, is positively wired. Not that he would have been able to sleep with the excitement of his imminent meeting with Newton Geiszler anyway. Sherlock is horrified to find himself practically giddy with it. They will get to exchange notes, discuss their theories in person, probably shake hands ( _why in hell are you so excited about that?_ ). He reads Newt's papers for a third, some of them fourth, time and by the end of the trip he's worked himself into a bit of a riot. He approaches the door before the plane has fully stopped and exits at the first opportunity. He’s met by a tall, slender woman in an olive green jumpsuit. Sherlock barely has to glance at the insignia stitched on it to deduce her purpose here. He sighs.

"I hate riding in helicopters."

She looks startled for a moment, then laughs. "I assure you, sir, I'm an excellent pilot. We'll get you to the 'Dome with your lunch where it belongs."

Sherlock gives her a quick, fake smile but follows in the direction she beckons. She is an excellent pilot, but Sherlock is restless and can't relax so he ends up slightly queasy anyway. After a few moments of steady flying down the coast the helicopter dips to a lower altitude and heads out over the water. Sherlock watches the horizon as it rolls toward them until it's finally broken by the large, jagged shape of the Shatterdome. His breath catches in his throat.

The smooth landing and cool, afternoon breeze on the deck are a comfort to Sherlock's nausea. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes, willing balance back into his legs. His pilot's Australian accent is pronounced as she says "Welcome to The Rim, sir." He nods to her and says a sincere thank you. He's about to pick up his bag and look around for an escort when he hears his name called enthusiastically from off to his right. Sherlock turns toward the sound and immediately recognizes Newt from the pictures on his alumni page on MIT's website. His hair is messy and finger-combed like the pictures, and those are clearly the same glasses, but his age and stress level are showing in his laugh lines and the tattoos revealed by his rolled up sleeves are definitely new. As is the tingling in Sherlock's fingers and a sensation in his chest like winged insects trying to make their way out. (Butterflies. Idiot.)

Before Sherlock knows what's happening Newt meets him on the deck and pulls him into a hug. Newt's a bit shorter than Sherlock so he leans up to rest his chin on Sherlock's shoulder as his arms wind around to clap Sherlock on the back. He can feel Newt's breath on his neck. He freezes up at the unexpected touch, but if Newt notices he doesn't let on, just backs off to grip Sherlock by his biceps and look him in the eye.

"Sherlock! It's great to finally see you! How was the flight, man?"

Sherlock shakes himself a bit, but his voice doesn't waver when he says "Boring."

Newt beams at him. "How did I know you were gonna say that? Come on, let's get inside."

They walk together, Sherlock ducking slightly, from the deck into the Shatterdome. He follows Newt mutely, taking in everything; trying to memorize the layout, predict their next turn, deduce where they’re going while Newt talks animatedly over his shoulder.

“I thought I could take you to the room so you can drop off your bag, get a shower or a nap if you need it. R&D runs around the clock here since we’re always on call, so I can pretty much come and go as I please. Lots of time to give you the nickel tour and check out the lab. This way.”

Newt smiles wide at him again and Sherlock can’t help but grin stupidly back. It’s been years since someone was this happy to see him, paid him this much attention. Years since he’s met someone so unpretentious.

Newt stops in front of a steel, hatch style door. “Home sweet home,” he sing-songs as he disengages the lock and pushes the door into the room. He steps aside and gestures for Sherlock to enter first.

When he gets inside Sherlock can see in a moment that this is Newt’s personal quarters. It’s disheveled, much like the man himself. Laundry is piled up all around, but very little in, the basket. Posters of rock bands cover the walls, mixed in with his anatomical sketches and, interestingly, some of Sherlock’s as well. A desk with an old style lamp with a green glass shade sits in the corner, covered in papers that threaten to slide off in an avalanche any second. Most telling of all though is the bed, which is clearly two single bunks, mismatched and differently worn, pushed together to make one makeshift sleeping surface for two. Sherlock gasps softly as his observations slot together into a surprising deduction. Newton Geiszler brought him here anticipating a sexual encounter. Sherlock can feel himself gaping and tries to reign in his disappointment before Newt notices, but it’s too late. He looks over just in time to see the smile melt off the other man’s face.

“Oh god… I read this all wrong, didn’t I? Shit. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’ll go down to the quartermaster and find you a guest room. I shouldn't have assumed you would wanna bunk with me. I guess I thought..." He trails off into a sigh as his eyes flick over the print outs of Sherlock's emails and scans taped to the wall above the bed, his enthusiasm deflated. Newt turns and reaches for the door.

"Wait," Sherlock says. “It’s fine, I just didn’t realize…" ( _that that's why you like me_ ). "It’s fine.” He keeps eye contact with Newt as he sheds his jacket and unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt. Newt looks confused but watches silently until Sherlock reaches for the buttons on his shirt front.

"Whoa, Sherlock, wait! What do you think is going on here? I'm not trying to- Ok, we obviously need to talk about this."

“Talk about what? The sex or why we’re having it, because I decidedly do not want to have one of those conversations,” Sherlock replies, defensive.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Look, I think there’s been a serious miscommunication here. You seem to think I brought you 6,000 miles across Asia for a booty call.”

Sherlock lets his brows rise and looks pointedly over at the cobbled-together bed.

“That’s what I’m saying! We were flirting! Well, I was. I thought you were. I- ” Newt reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck, fighting the blush spreading over his nose and cheeks. “I kinda thought we were dating.” He motions to the Sherlock-themed collage on the far wall. Sherlock hadn’t noticed before but there’s even a picture of him that ran in The Guardian last year, when he solved the case with the forged painting. His perspective on the last six weeks shifts suddenly and yes, he can see how Newt had come to that conclusion. He feels a bit sea sick as everything lurches back into line with reality. Finding eye contact with Newt again seems to help.

“Oh. I- Well, I don’t… usually. That is to say, I’ve never… and I don’t really know how-” Sherlock has never been so ineloquent or felt so stupid in all his life, and it’s made worse by the realisation that Newt is laughing. Just a little, barely audible but given away by the shaking in his shoulders.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I’m not asking you to marry me. Just go to the canteen with me and… I don’t know, share a Coke or something. Isn’t that what they always do in movies from when people still courted each other?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” Sherlock deadpans, and Newt laughs out loud.

“Then I’m asking you to a movie too. How do you feel about Frankenstein?”

“The scientist, the creature, or the novel itself?” Sherlock smirks, and now he’s flirting on purpose.

“All three. I don’t actually know much about human biology. Talk to me about reanimated corpses.”

Sherlock, quite characteristically, doesn’t have a good understanding of the difference between banter and a real request and so expounds on defibrillation, surgical nerve repair, and Paradise Lost over the whole film.


End file.
